


Spring, 1988

by orphan_account



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Black and White soulmate AU, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot, Romance, Soulmate AU, basically an au where everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate for the first time, hah GAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY, idk how to tag this, inspired by a tumblr post, marker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 04:21:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18275678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: groanswhy is this still getting kudos's it's BADThe fact that Mark never met his third roommate wasn’t on purpose.They just simply never were in the same room.tldr; Mark moves into the loft after meeting Collins through a lecture. He doesn't meet his other roommate for two weeks because of their schedules, and when they finally do bump into each other, they find out that they're soulmates and stuff happens. Au where everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate.





	Spring, 1988

**Author's Note:**

> Hi this was based off of this tumblr post;  
> https://fem-mark-cohen.tumblr.com/post/183658946167/for-the-au-thing-any-soulmate-au
> 
> This is the first oneshot I've ever finished, enjoy!! (lmao, love that anxiety and lack of motivation)
> 
> Also a HUGE THANK YOU to my best friend, merxepazu on here, who proofread this work for me!! Love ya dude
> 
> there's a lot of mistakes here because im absolutely illiterate but im doing my best ksjksjksjksjks

_April 11th, 1988._

 

The fact that Mark never met his third roommate wasn’t on _purpose._

They just simply never were in the same room.  
  
When he steps into the loft for the first time, admiring the vast variety of gray shades in the apartment, he questions where the other tenant lives. Tom Collins, who he met through a free philosophy lecture which Mark did _not_ only attend to film, _of course,_ explains that he’s always out doing one thing or another. Apparently, he’s in a band and is also nearly nocturnal.  
  
Mark doesn’t question further.

 

_April 25, 1998._

 

When Mark’s alarm goes off, two weeks into the new lease, he ignores it at first and shuts it off for a few minutes. It blares persistently until he smacks the top of it, knocking it over but simultaneously making it shut up. It was a Monday and he was not pleased about waking up with a migraine and wrist pains on one of the few days when he has an eight am class.

He puts on an old white t-shirt and some black jeans, preparing to drag himself to the film school he was attending, which was an hour-long commute away. He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and heads for the door of his bedroom. When he opens the door, hastily threading (or rather, attempting to) a daylight spool of film through his camera, he’s not looking at the kitchen and is surprised to hear a noise coming from the table that stands in the middle of the room. Through the hazy mist of just waking up he recalls that Collins was away for a few days on a business trip, as far as he knew, so this must be the elusive third roommate. The camera finally cooperates on the third try, and the film runs through his stubborn Bolex. He closes the cover and looks up.

His gaze travels to the counter, where someone with light, messy hair is slouched over. The shadowed man’s eyes meet his and Mark’s migraine worsens as the room explodes into the unexpected, bright concept of _colour._ He blinks a few times, his eyes ill-adjusted to the brightness of their apartment.

There’s a moment of stunned silence. The mug in the other’s hand crashes to the ground and shatters.  
  
The first thing that Mark notices is that the colours in their apartment are warm, per se. The other man’s expression morphs from observant to shocked, his eyes widening. He certainly keeps his cool better than Mark, however, and opens his mouth to speak.  
  
“Hey… new guy,” The other says, his voice faltering as he realizes that he doesn’t know the filmmakers name. Mark can hear him dying inside as he talks.  
  
“Hi.” Is all he can force out. He quickly makes a sharp 90 degree turn and instead of heading into the kitchen for breakfast, he strides directly out of the front door.

That morning, he makes a detour to the library, stuttering something barely comprehensible to the clerk at the desk. The librarian takes one glance at his state and points him to the section on identifying colour without a word.

That’s where he spends the rest of the day, regretting half of the shots he’s framed in the past. At least he knows who his soulmate is, and that’s somewhat an improvement.

 

_May 14, 1988._

Somehow, the two manage to completely avoid the subject- and each other- for two weeks. At one point, Mark makes his exit through the window and down the fire escape instead of the door because Roger was working in the kitchen. The first and only full conversation they have that month is very short and takes place at four am on a weekend night.  
  
He’s sitting at the window, examining the colours of the sky and cityscape when a voice startles him from behind.  
  
“I never learned your name.”  
  
Mark turns his head and looks up. His roomate, who’s name he kept forgetting to ask, is standing a few feet away. He’s wearing a thick leather jacket and his hair is a darker shade of blonde that seemed to be bleached with darker auburn hair showing at the roots.

“Oh,” he says. “It’s Mark. Cohen. I’m Mark Cohen.” He’s pretty sure he visibly cringes as he says it. _For someone whos been on this earth for the better part of 23 years, you’d think I’d know how to form sentences,_ he bitterly thinks to himself. But it’s four am and neither of them look any livelier than a piece of roadkill.

“Roger Adam Davis.” The tall insomniac shifts his weight.  
  
“Oh, nice.”

  
The silence is thick and awkward for a few long moments. In the dark, the other sits down on the bench (which Collins managed to steal from a highschool locker room), a few feet away from the filmmaker. Mark can’t help but look up at Roger, who’s now watching the city through the window. His eyes are a brilliant forest green, even in the dark. The light of the city below reflects in them, illuminating them slightly.

  
“Which one’s your favorite?”  
  
Mark snaps out of his trance, tilting his head slightly. “What?”

“Colour, I mean.” He restates, his eyes still transfixed on the city.

Mark pauses. Neither of them want to discuss the entire soulmate situation, but he can’t help but think but the shade of gray-green that Roger wears has got to be his favorite, alongside the deep shades of red and burgundy that he’s inadvertently packed his own wardrobe with.

“Green, probably. Yours?” He’s honest and unspecific with his answer. Roger tilts his head and their eyes meet again momentarily.  
  
“Blue, I guess. Maybe red.” They sit for a few minutes, both not wanting to push the conversation further. Roger stands up and leaves the apartment after that, and Mark goes back to watching.  
  
The question hangs above his head; _Am I even gay?_

He knows that if Roger is his soulmate, he should be, right? Soulmates are complicated and messy, and thousands of people have lived their whole lives in black and white. Others live their lives alone yet in colour, or with the wrong person. He should consider himself lucky- at least he knows who it is. The universe made it simple for him.

He can’t bring himself to think about it now, and would rather keep it simple and undecided.

He considers the fact that they've learned each others names an improvement.

 

  
_May 29, 1988._

 

Mark and Roger have yet again made it a point to avoid each other and any and all forms of interaction for the next two and a half weeks.

  
Tom comes home from a day out breathless and energetic. His eyes are wide and darting around their apartment in wonder.  
  
He calls his roommates in, making them sit down at the main kitchen table. A bottle of raspberry Stoli is placed on the table, and Roger eyes it from beside Mark before hopping up onto the table and sitting down, crossing his knees. Mark glances at him, surprised, but ignores it for the most part.  
  
Collins’ bright eyes focus on the two.  
  
“You guys are so _pretty_!” He says passing the bottle to Roger, who in turn offers it to Mark, who shakes his head slightly. The songwriter on the table raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t insist.

“Let me guess; you met your soulm-” Roger starts, but Collins interrupts, leaning forward.  
  
“I met my soulmate! Today. Wait, Roger, has your hair always been dyed like that?”  
  
Mark laughs, at both Collins sporadic thoughts and Roger’s expression. Collins smiles before continuing.

“Dude, just tell us all about her- is it a her?” Roger says, smiling amusedly.

“Yes, I think. Okay, okay, okay so. I was at the protest, and she is _beautiful_ \- and generous- and her name is Angel. Angel Dumott Schunard.” He pauses. “She’s new in New York- the newest member of this little alphabet city avant garde.”  
  
By now, the Stoli is in Mark’s hands and he gives in and takes a drink.

Collins tells them about the person he bumped into for a half hour or so. Apparently he’d met her after he got mugged (which Mark started anxiously questioning before being told to shut up) and she had helped him back up and had treated one of his wounds. He holds up his hand, wrapped neatly with gauze, gleefully. Then they had visited a cafe and talked for hours, about colours, life, and whatever came to mind for the both of them, until he had decided to return to the loft.

“My favorite has got to be _orange._ ” He says. Mark is vaguely feeling the effects of the bottle by now, increasingly nervous and jumpy. His heel is tapping repeatedly on the floor under the table nervously. Roger, on the other hand, has splayed out across the table now, taking up the majority of the surface.

“What about you guys? Have you met yours, Mark?” Tom goes at some point.

Mark, if he weren’t tipsy, would be avoiding the subject. However, he just leans forward against the table and says, “Actually, yeah. I have.”  Roger tenses up besides him.

“Really… Do you know who they are?”  
  
Mark has to admit that his thoughts and judgment are clouded by the alcohol but he just answers truthfully before realizing his mistake.

  
“Oh, yeah, it’s Roger.”

Roger props himself up using one arm, staring at Mark. Collins looks at Roger, and then Mark, and back again. “Seriously?” He asks, incredulously.  
  
“Yeah.” Is all he replies. Collins leans forward, gaping at the two.

  
“Wait, since when? Are you- You haven’t- _what?”_  
  
Roger rubs his neck awkwardly. “Uh, here’s the thing. We’ve kind of completely, like, avoided talking to each other since finding out, what, a month ago.” Might as well tell the full truth if they’re at it.  
  
Collins reacts by promptly absolutely losing his shit. For five minutes. Mark and Roger just watch him laugh at them, unamused and visibly uncomfortable.

When he can finally talk again, if only a little bit, he forces out through his bursts of laughter: “So you’re telling me that you guys found out that you're soulmates-” he pauses to laugh. “And you- you just _avoided_ each other for a MONTH?”

Mark nods awkwardly and shrugs. “Yeah. Oops, I guess.” In the long run, it seemed dumb. But both of them were too busy with god knows what to figure it out.  
  
“You _procrastinated_ on your _soulmate._ This is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, oh my god.”

Roger looks away. “It’s not that bad. I mean....” He stops and thinks. “Okay, yeah, that was dumb but-”

“ _The dumbest._ You guys should at least have a few conversations or something. Or is that too intimate for you two? Here’s an idea; try existing in the same room!” Collins teases, still chuckling.

“Shut up.” Mark huffs.

Before Mark says anything else, he looks at Roger’s face. He didn’t realize how much of the bottles contents had gone to Roger until then. Now that he thinks about it, the songwriter probably had at least half of it and was significantly more drunk than the other two.

“Would you want to try us, Cohen?”  
  
He’s caught off guard by the question. Does he?“

I don't know, I haven't really th-” He's cut off as Roger moves on the table and reaches over to Mark, using one hand to prop himself up and using the other to bring Mark face to face with him. Their eyes meet before Roger leans forward and catches the other’s mouth with his own.

The kiss couldn't have lasted longer than a few moments but it leaves Mark red and flustered all the same. Roger draws back, licking his lips and smiling amusedly.

“I- wow. Okay.” Collins says incredulously. “Do you two need a room, or?”

Mark shakes his head, blanking on what to say next.

“That's it. Come on, we’re going. All three of us.” Collins says. His tone conveys that neither of them are getting out of this.

“What? Where?” Mark questions, unusually alert.

“ _Out._ ” He says, already grabbing his coat. “I'm taking the both of you to a bar or something.” Taking one look at their expressions, he continues. “When was the last time either of you had any fun? If you didn’t have time for your goddamn soulmate i doubt you had any time for anything else.”

Mark admits that he can't quite recall going anywhere other than school and the drug store recently. Judging by Rogers momentary silence, neither did he. “Alright fine, but I've got rehearsal in the morning, so I can't stay out late.”

After that night, they no longer go out of their ways to avoid each other and occasionally spend time together. Mark considers that an improvement.

 

_November 7th, 1988_

 

The film footage from that day is shaky. Offscreen, the person holding the camera is laughing.  
  
In the shot, Mark and Roger are both sitting in the old recliner, Roger splayed out over the entire thing with Mark sitting on top of him, blatantly ignoring the songwriters protests. He’s laughing as he notices he’s being filmed.  
  
Collins is holding one of Mark’s few vintage cameras, doing his best to operate it. He glances over the top of the viewfinder, addressing the two.  
  
“Hey, dudes, tell the camera what you did today!” He calls out, mocking the filmmaker. Roger notices the camera and vaguely waves.

“Today we- ouch, get _off_ Mark- we went on a real date for the first time-” He says, swatting at Mark, who’s currently incredibly determined to find out whether the songwriter is ticklish or not.

“-and now I’m being harassed by- _ah_ !” He cuts off with a noise of surprise as Mark pokes him in the rib, laughing triumphantly.  
  
“I knew you had to be ticklish!” He says, his laughter quickly turning into protesting as Roger brings his arms up and wraps them around the smaller, pulling him down into an odd hug. He struggles in the tight embrace as Collins films them as best as he can.

“It took six months, but the lover birds stopped avoiding each other and finally hooked up-” Collins ducks as a pillow sails over his head. “-and are now absolutely boyfriends,” He drags out the last word jokingly.  
  
“Oh, shut up.” Mark says halfheartedly, having succumbed to Roger’s bear hug, his cheeks a light shade of pink.

Collins stops filming and chuckles as he takes the daylight takeup spool from the camera, plopping down on the couch nearby them.  
  
“It worked out in the end, didn’t it?” He asks them. Six months of conversations and teasing later, the soulmates had finally given in and crossed the blurry line from friends to lovers.

  
“Yeah, guess it did.” Roger says, and Mark considers that an improvement.


End file.
